


Sailor's Omens

by NeverNooitNiet



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, M/M, Swordfighting, There is one old-timey gun but it’s never fired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:01:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22162207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverNooitNiet/pseuds/NeverNooitNiet
Summary: Aziraphale shot him a glare, and slowly began to scrabble across the rigging in what must have been the most undignified way it was humanly possible to do so.“So sorry,” he gritted out, “it is my first time being kidnapped, you see, my sincerest apologies if I’m not living up to your standards—”Crowley shot a panicked glance back at the fighting behind him.“Look, would you just climb the blasted ropes, all right, before someone decides this coat would look nicer with a few bullet holes through it?”Kidnapping Aziraphale, the stuffy younger brother of a renowned merchant, may not turn out to be quite the stroke of piratical genius that Crowley had anticipated.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 260
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Exchange 2019





	Sailor's Omens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/gifts).



When the screaming started, Aziraphale had initially just assumed it was Gabriel having a go at someone. Or, he didn’t know, some kind of strange seafaring superstition. There seemed to be an endless arsenal of those—cats were good, whistling was bad— except when one wanted the wind to increase, then it was good — Fridays were bad, and so on and so forth, _ad infinitum._  
  
Three months into his sojourn aboard the _Celestial_ and Aziraphale had had quite enough of boats, thank you. He had by no means wanted to end up sailing the high seas with his infuriating brother Gabriel, but having no real skills other than an impressive knowledge of Theology and a fashion sense he thought was rather natty, he had the sneaking suspicion that his parents had been rather relieved when Gabriel had offered to take Aziraphale under his wing.  
  
And it had sounded lovely, in theory— seeing the world, exploring new cultures, all the swashbuckling adventures and handsome men in billowing shirts one could ask for. Not to mention the fact that it served as quite a nice distraction from the abrupt way in which Aziraphale had left university.  
  
And in theory, Aziraphale really ought to be an excellent sailor. He’d read all the books that he could find on the subject, practiced tying all the knots and learning everything he could about navigation and the merchant trade, throwing himself into it with the same frenzied dedication that he’d once had for Saint Augustine’s _Confessions._  
  
In practice, Aziraphale was a soft-spoken, slightly fussy merchant’s son, the sailors largely a bunch of ragtag, foul-smelling thugs, and Gabriel far too busy with the well-oiled business of making money to worry particularly about the well-being of his disgraced little brother. And so Aziraphale spent most of his time in his cabin below decks, perpetually miserable and most often seasick, reading and rereading all the books that he had, and pretending that was as good as an education from Oxford.  
  
He sighed, turned a well-worn page with tender care, and did his best to ignore the positive cacophony of sounds coming from up on the ship’s deck.  
  
He got to work trying to lose himself in the words, and was finally beginning to immerse himself once more— which was of course when the man came stumbling in.  
  
Aziraphale didn’t know him, which wasn’t particularly a surprise, but what was a surprise was that he looked… nice. Nicer than most of Gabriel’s crew, anyway, with a richly embroidered black coat swirling down to his ankles, and small dark lenses obscuring his eyes. His hair was a fiery ginger, lapping down to his collar, and he looked somewhat disconcerted to see Aziraphale.  
  
This was also, unfortunately, probably not a surprise— Aziraphale could hardly imagine Gabriel was going about boasting of his useless brother to the crew, and thought that this was probably for the best. Even so, Aziraphale realised how he must look, quickly drawing himself up to his full height, and smoothing down his clothing, proper as always— even if he barely saw anyone, it helped afford him a sense of normalcy.  
  
“Hello!” Aziraphale said cheerily. He stuck out a hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met— I’m Aziraphale, and you are?”  
  
The man stared at Aziraphale’s hand as though he’d offered him a severed head, gaze seeming to fix on his signet ring— although the spectacles made it difficult to be certain, of course.  
  
“Um,” he said. “Do you have any idea what’s going on up there?” He gestured vaguely to the top deck.  
  
Aziraphale shook his head regretfully. He was more aware than ever of his fussy, impractical clothes, of the book clutched tightly in his soft hands. He was utterly out of place here, and knew it. Which had been fine, when the crew members had been rough and unpleasant and as disappointing to Aziraphale as he no doubt was to them, but when faced with this oddly attractive sailor, he did rather wish he’d tried just a little harder to fit in.  
  
“I barely know anything that goes on here, to be perfectly honest. Haven’t really found my, ah, sea legs yet. Mainly I’m down here reading, which is probably why we haven’t met yet.”  
  
The man continued to sort of just stare at him, and Aziraphale felt his cheeks grow red. He laughed nervously.  
  
“I’m not a stowaway, or anything,” he said. “I’m— well, I’m the captain’s brother, though you wouldn’t always think it.”  
  
“The captain’s brother,” the man repeated slowly. Aziraphale nodded, patience beginning to wear just a little thin.  
  
“Quite,” he replied tautly. “Might I remind you that you still haven’t introduced yourself?”  
  
The man reached into one of the pockets of that sumptuous black coat and ever so slowly pulled out a gleaming silver pistol, pointing it directly at Aziraphale.  
  
“I really am sorry about this,” he said. “But, er, my name’s Crowley, you’ve been boarded by the _Inferno_ , and you’ll be coming with me.”  
  
All Aziraphale could really look at was the pistol, the way it glinted in the dim light of the cabin, the gleaming unreality of it.  
  
“Sorry,” he ventured tentatively, “what, exactly, is going on?”  
  
Crowley waggled the pistol at him in a careless way that made Aziraphale’s stomach lurch uncomfortably.  
  
“I’m kidnapping you,” he said cheerfully. “Now, are you coming, or not?”  
  
Aziraphale blinked. The whole situation had a washed out, distant feel to it, and some far-off, clinical corner of his mind wondered if he might be in shock.  
  
“And if I don’t come with you?”  
  
Crowley did the pistol-waggling thing again.  
  
“Then I’ll shoot you, of course.”  
  
Aziraphale furrowed his brow.  
  
“You won’t,” he said, with far more confidence than he felt. “You can’t kidnap me _and_ shoot me. And I don’t think you could kill me, anyway.”  
  
This was very, very much a gamble on Aziraphale’s part. But something told him that Crowley’s almost friendly demeanour, the way he’d seemed slightly regretful, were not the marks of a distinguished killer.  
  
“I wouldn’t _have_ to kill you,” Crowley grumbled, sounding just a bit put out, “I could shoot you in the leg. Which would hurt you and be a bloody pain in the neck for me, so why don’t you just save both of us the bother and come along, yeah?”  
  
There was no arguing with that. Aziraphale shot a last, longing look at the small cabin that had become his home over the last few months, the small stack of his books, before Crowley herded him out the door, the barrel of the gun pressed squarely to the small of Aziraphale’s back, cool and eerie. Even if Aziraphale didn’t quite think the other man had it in him to murder him on purpose, there was absolutely nothing to preclude the gun from going off accidentally and leaving him just as dead. Crowley whistled all the way to the top deck, apparently enjoying this kidnapping very much, and the one coherent thought that Aziraphale could form over the pounding of his heart as Crowley led him out of his cabin was that whistling was meant to bring bad luck, wasn’t it? Unless one wanted stronger winds.  
  
  
  
Reaching the deck of the ship felt uncomfortably like reaching a war zone, and Aziraphale gaped in stunned horror at the dozens of men, all dressed in the same long, dark coat as Crowley, grappled with the _Celestial_ ’s crew. Pirates. Gabriel’s ship had been positively overrun by pirates— and the pirates looked to be winning. For one very small moment, Aziraphale allowed himself to relish the feeling of not being the biggest cock-up of the family for once, before his heart stuttered as he realised quite what this meant for him— in the chaos, no one batted so much as an eyelid at Aziraphale’s predicament. Not daring to resist as Crowley pushed him onwards, to the port side of the _Celestial_ , to where the smaller, darker ship had latched herself to the _Celestial_ ’s side.  
  
Crowley gave Aziraphale a gentle shove.  
  
“Come on, then. You first.”  
  
Aziraphale shot him an incredulous look.  
  
“I— _how_?”  
  
“Shrouds and ratlines,” Crowley said, gesturing impatiently, “and be quick about it.”  
  
When Aziraphale continued to stare blankly, Crowley let out a deep, put-upon sigh, as though the weight of the world was on his spindly shoulders.  
  
“The _ropes_ , you—”  
  
Aziraphale shot him a glare, and slowly began to scrabble across the rigging in what must have been the most undignified way it was humanly possible to do so.  
  
“So sorry,” he gritted out, “it is my first time being kidnapped, you see, my sincerest apologies if I’m not living up to your standards—”  
  
Crowley shot a panicked glance back at the fighting behind him.  
  
“Look, would you just climb the blasted ropes, all right, before someone decides this coat would look nicer with a few bullet holes through it?”  
  
Aziraphale moved as fast as he could, dropping the last few metres and stumbling awkwardly onto the unfamiliar deck in front of him. Crowley followed, pistol momentarily disappearing back into that voluminous black coat, moving with a grace and speed far beyond anything Aziraphale had been able to muster, and dropping down onto the deck with a light _thud_.  
  
“Right,” he said easily, grabbing ahold of Aziraphale’s arm, “to the brig with you.”  
  
Crowley pulled him below decks to a room that made Aziraphale feel terribly, terribly guilty for ever having thought that anyone aboard the _Celestial_ stank, and procured a length of coarse rope, which he was quick to fasten around Aziraphale’s pale wrists.  
  
“Again, sorry— I’ll untie you once we’re off, but I’ve got to make sure you don’t run off or anything, you know.”  
  
Aziraphale couldn’t find the energy to respond, the grim reality of his situation beginning to sink in. Crowley didn’t quite seem to notice, staring off at the door that led back up to the deck of the ship.  
  
“Er… I’ll… just go and get you some things, yeah? I’ll be right back. _Ciao_.”  
  
And with an awkward little wave, he was off.  
  
The door clicked shut with a heavy, weighted noise that left Aziraphale in no doubt that it was locked. Alone in the half-dark of the brig, the cold reality of his situation began to set in. He had been taken prisoner. Aboard a pirate ship no less— the _Inferno_ , Crowley had said. And all because he’d managed to read through the sound of his ship being boarded, and then thought that Crowley— the pirate who had pointed a gun at him and tied him up and left him here in the stinking dark, was _pretty_.  
  
Aziraphale couldn’t stop the tears of self-pity that pricked at his eyes at that, and nor could he stop the sobs that came moments later.  
  
True to his word, Crowley came back quickly, clutching a bucket and a small tin. He frowned at the sight of Aziraphale’s tear streaked face.  
  
“Hey, don’t cry,” he said, with surprising gentleness, moving to sit down beside Aziraphale. “You’ll be fine, yeah? No one will hurt you. We’ll get your brother to pay us a nice ransom, and then you’ll go home, safe as houses.”  
  
This was, momentarily, relatively reassuring. And then a sudden realisation spiked through Aziraphale, cold and piercing.  
  
“He won’t.”  
  
Crowley quirked an eyebrow.  
  
“What?”  
  
“He won’t want me back, certainly not if he has to pay—”  
  
“Course he will,” Crowley said soothingly. “You’re his brother, after all.”  
  
“You don’t understand,” Aziraphale said wretchedly. “I’ve rather become the family disgrace at the moment, he’d probably be thrilled to have me out of the way, anything to save face—”  
  
“To _save face_? I mean in that case, don’t even look at this as a kidnapping. More like… a liberation.”  
  
Aziraphale shot him a long, flat look, and Crowley swore.  
  
“Hell’s teeth, don’t tell the others any of that, I’ll be bloody well keelhauled…”  
  
“Well,” Aziraphale said sniffily, “maybe you should have considered that before you _kidnapped_ me.”  
  
“‘M just trying to make a living,” Crowley muttered. “We can’t all lounge about on our brother’s ships reading, you know.”  
  
“There’s a few degrees between that and outright piracy,” Aziraphale snapped.  
  
“Not as many as one might think,” said Crowley, with a humourless smile. “Not that you would know.”  
  
Aziraphale huffed, about to come out with something that would undoubtedly be deeply cutting and impactful, but at a sudden sound from the upper deck, Crowley tensed, scrabbling upwards and away from Aziraphale.  
  
The door clattered open and a man burst in, with a pockmarked face under a mop of oddly light, almost translucent hair.  
  
“Hastur,” Crowley said, his voice sliding up a few octaves, “hi—”  
  
Hastur slammed him against the wall, hard enough that Aziraphale winced.  
  
“And where were you while we were fighting for our lives up there, you spineless little _snake_?”  
  
“ _I_ was securing us a tidy little ransom,” Crowley said, with a note of bravado that Aziraphale, having known the lanky pirate for all of half an hour, could tell was utterly fake. He managed to extract one arm from Hastur’s grip, and point it in Aziraphale’s vague direction.  
  
“Captain’s little brother,” he said.  
  
Hastur turned to look at Aziraphale.  
  
“That true?” he asked. Aziraphale nodded reluctantly.  
  
A slow, toothy smile spread over Hastur’s face.  
  
“Well,” he said, unhanding Crowley and clapping him on the back as he stumbled away from the wall, “you live another month then, _Crawly_.”  
  
“Grand,” muttered Crowley. Hastur ignored him.  
  
“Right. I’ll get Dagon to start on a ransom letter, but he’s bloody well your responsibility while he’s on here. Now help us put out before those mercher bastards pull their heads far enough out their arses for a round two.”  
  
Crowley shot Aziraphale a last, lingering look, before Hastur half-dragged him out of the brig. The door slammed shut, and Aziraphale was alone once more.  
  
  
  
The ship lurched as it picked up speed, and Aziraphale lost track of quite how much time he spent alone in the brig as the familiar, nauseous feeling of seasickness took hold, only exacerbated by the overwhelming odour of the place. He couldn’t even wipe the dried tears off his face, with his hands still tied securely behind his back— everything he’d ever read about knots told him that Crowley had tied a dastardly good one. When the pirate finally did return, red hair now bound behind him with a tatty ribbon, coatsleeves rolled up and looking rather more harried than he had previously, it was more of a relief than Aziraphale cared to admit.  
  
“You look positively green,” he said, peering down at Aziraphale with a sort of horrified fascination. “How long were you on your brother’s ship?”  
  
“Three months,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley hummed noncommittally as he knelt down to fiddle with the ropes binding Aziraphale’s wrists.  
  
“You know,” he said conversationally, “It usually takes people about three days to develop their sea legs.”  
  
“Well, I aim to disappoint in all areas,” Aziraphale grumbled.  
  
“Do spare me the dramatics,” Crowley said, as the ropes fell away. Aziraphale flexed his wrists thankfully, as Crowley got to his feet. “Come on, then.”  
  
Aziraphale gaped at him, clutching his stomach defensively.  
  
“You want me to _move_?”  
  
“Fresh air’s the best thing for sea-sickness,” Crowley said authoritatively, “and I doubt the smell in here’s doing you any favours, either.”  
  
He stuck out a slender hand, and Aziraphale, after looking at it warily for a moment, took it, and pulled himself to his feet.  
  
The brisk sea air did, strangely, seem to calm Aziraphale’s stomach somewhat, and he took in deep, grateful gulps as Crowley led him to the side of the ship, flatly ignoring the myriad black-coated pirates going this way and that, pulling on ropes and carrying off objects that Aziraphale, with a dim measure of outrage, recognised as coming from the _Celestial_.  
  
Crowley rested one hand on the side of the ship, and gestured out at the ocean, glittering green-gold in the evening light.  
  
“Seasickness happens when you look at something moving that you know should be still— like the walls of your little cabin. The best thing for it is to watch something that moves like it’s supposed to.”  
  
Aziraphale watched the gentle bobbing of the waves, and was surprised when the nauseous feeling he’d become so begrudgingly accustomed to gradually began to subside. He smiled at Crowley, with a weary sort of gratitude. From this close, he could see that the pirate wore small golden hoops through his ears, which glimmered in the soft glow of the setting sun.  
  
“Were you ever seasick?” Aziraphale asked. “I… that helped. Quite a bit, actually.”  
  
Crowley grinned.  
  
“I was born on a ship,” he explained, dark lenses shining, “so I suppose I’m used to it.” He pulled a face. “Used to get landsick when we pulled into port sometimes, though, and looking at buildings, mountains— anything fixed, really— would help.”  
  
Aziraphale nodded.  
  
“I… didn’t realise that that could happen. Landsickness, I mean.”  
  
“Spend long enough on here, and you might experience it for yourself,” Crowley said, reaching up and pulling the ribbon out of his hair so that it fell to his collarbones, framing his pointed face. Aziraphale watched him with a familiar spark of worry.  
  
“I— the blonde man from earlier. The angry one.”  
  
“Hastur,” Crowley supplied helpfully. “First mate, and all-round bastard.”  
  
Aziraphale swallowed nervously.  
  
“I can’t imagine he’ll be too happy when he finds out Gabriel won’t pay for me.”  
  
“It’s worth trying, anyway,” Crowley said. “You never know. And if not, I’ll… figure something out.”  
  
Aziraphale looked back at the vast expanse of sea before him. The _Celestial_ was nowhere to be seen. He let out a weary sigh.  
  
“Why do you think that he won’t come for you?” Crowley asked suddenly. “This whole… saving face business you mentioned.”  
  
Aziraphale took a deep, shuddering breath. This was not a story he ought to be telling, particularly not to a lanky pirate he knew next to nothing about and who would almost certainly try to exploit this for his own gain.  
  
“I was a student at Oxford,” he began haltingly. “Theology, but I was… asked to leave, rather abruptly.” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “I had a… tryst, I suppose one might say, with a fellow student.”  
  
Crowley furrowed his brow.  
  
“Is that all?”  
  
“A fellow _male_ student,” Aziraphale clarified glumly.  
  
“Oh,” Crowley said, dark spectacles making his expression difficult to discern. “And that’s… right.” He fiddled with the fringing on his sleeve. “‘S less of an issue for us, that kind of thing. I mean, I think some people feel they have to—there’s a lot less women on ships, people tend to think they’re—”  
  
“Bad luck,” Aziraphale finished for him. Crowley arched an eyebrow, and Aziraphale smiled self-consciously. “I may be a miserable sailor in the practical sense, but I have read absolutely every book I could find on the subject, you know.”  
  
“Full of surprises, you are,” Crowley said with a lazy smile. “The _Inferno_ ’s unusual in that regard, though— we’ve got a woman captain. Beelzebub.”  
  
Azirpahale blinked.  
  
“Bee— as in the devil?”  
  
“Oh, believe me, you’d much, much rather meet the devil,” Crowley said, voice lilting with amusement. He patted the side of the ship fondly. “‘S a good ship, this. Not too superstitious, good takings— if I have to put up with Hastur for that, I can live with it.”  
  
Aziraphale watched the lanky pirate stare off at the sea, the glow of the setting sun illuminating his face and making him look almost like one of Aziraphale’s stained-glass saints, in dark spectacles and a black coat. Why, why did he feel strangely… guilty about this? The fact that his being a family disappointment put this strange pirate at risk? Aziraphale shook his head as though trying to clear it, and turned to look at safer things, the never-ending expanse of sea and sky.  
  
  
  
Being Crowley’s responsibility aboard the _Inferno_ apparently meant that finding Aziraphale appropriate accommodation was also up to Crowley, and Aziraphale was begrudgingly grateful to the pirate for not merely shoving him back into the brig; instead he and Crowley were squashed up in Crowley’s tiny cabin, barely big enough for a bunk — which meant the pair of them had to share. Aziraphale had asked Crowley if he wasn’t worried that Aziraphale would murder him in his sleep, and he couldn’t quite decide whether he ought to be offended or oddly pleased at the way Crowley had laughed in response.  
  
“How does this work? If— I mean, how would you get a ransom,” Aziraphale asked, careful not to imply that Gabriel would actually consider paying. He didn’t want to get Crowley’s or his own hopes up.  
  
Crowley wriggled, oddly serpentine, trying to claim a few extra inches of space for himself.  
  
“So, they’ll need to restock,” he said with a familiar ease, “what with us having robbed them blind— and sometimes people will need medics, or want out— either way, they’ll pull into the nearest port. We’ll get there first, of course, send out a small dingy, and lay out our terms, usually in a letter. Then we wait for the money to come pouring in.”  
  
Aziraphale nodded hesitantly.  
  
“Hastur mentioned who’d be writing it, if I remember rightly— a Dagon?”  
  
It was rather odd, discussing one’s own abduction in such detached, almost businesslike tones, but in a way it helped, added an impersonal, slightly apologetic air to the whole thing. And Aziraphale, in some dim, frightened corner of his mind, thought that he’d better collect any information that he could, just in case.  
  
“Dagon does all the ransom notes and things. Our navigator. Well, I mean, ‘m pretty sure they’re the only person who knows how to write on this ship, so...”  
  
Aziraphale blinked.  
  
“I— you don’t know how to write?” he asked, something like horror creeping into his voice. “Can you read?”  
  
“The two tend to go hand in hand, or so I’ve heard,” Crowley said rather wryly. He laughed at the expression on Aziraphale’s face. “‘S alright, really. Never had much need for it on here.”  
  
“Oh, but there’s nothing better than a good book!” Aziraphale exclaimed passionately. “I— I could teach you?” he ventured, before realising quite how it sounded— as though he planned on staying with this odd, idiosyncratic pirate, as though they meant something to each other somehow. “I mean, I suppose I could make a start at any rate,” he added hurriedly.  
  
Crowley gave him a lopsided smile.  
  
“You could give it a go,” he said gently, tapping the dark frames of his spectacles. “Not quite sure I’ve got the eyes for it, to be honest.”  
  
“I was wondering, yes,” Aziraphale said tentatively. “About your spectacles.”  
  
The pirate let out a soft sigh.  
  
“They’re the main reason I’m glad these lot aren’t particularly superstitious,” Crowley said wearily. “D’you know what a Jonah is, what with all your reading?”  
  
Aziraphale furrowed his brow.  
  
“I— well, I’m acquainted with the biblical figure, of course, but—”  
  
“A Jonah’s someone who brings bad luck, just by being on board.” He gave a fairly bleak laugh as he carefully peeled off his spectacles. “They’re proper Jonah eyes, these.”  
  
Crowley’s eyes were— well. They were unlike any eyes Aziraphale had seen before, an arresting, almost golden yellow, with oddly elongated pupils, almost like slits.  
  
“They’re— well, I think they’re rather beautiful,” Aziraphale said. Crowley went remarkably red, and muttered an awkward “thanks” before hurriedly replacing his spectacles.  
  
There was a moment’s terse, heavy silence. Crowley cleared his throat awkwardly.  
  
“I, er, think we should try and get some sleep.”  
  
Aziraphale nodded awkwardly, Crowley blew out the oil lamp, and the darkness engulfed them.  
  
  
  
Strange as it was, in his brief time as prisoner aboard the _Inferno_ , Aziraphale got to know its crew far better than he ever had aboard the _Celestial._ Crowley was right, the fresh air and gentle movement of the sea sorted Aziraphale’s seasickness within days, and once he was no longer desperately worried about being sick everywhere, he found that he was able to take in his surroundings better, and to almost… enjoy them. There was Crowley, of course, awkward and sincere and far, far kinder than he really ought to be, but Aziraphale soon became acquainted with the rest of the crew. His opinion of Hastur wasn’t able to change much, but seeing how he interacted with Ligur, the gunner, at least gave Aziraphale a begrudging sort of understanding of the man. Dagon, master of navigations— and, apparently, ransom notes— was interesting: brusque and businesslike, but had a sharp-edged wit and was evidently very, very good at their job.  
  
Beelzebub, their erstwhile captain— well. She seemed apt enough, and efficient, and certainly far more intimidating than a woman of below average height ought to be.  
  
Aziraphale didn’t _like_ her, of course. Didn’t like any of them, really. How could he, when he abhorred their moral code and everything that they stood for, the way they were willing to use a human being as a bargaining chip? But on a personal level he supposed he… respected them, after a fashion.  
  
And then there was Crowley, who against all good sense he did like, which was becoming a very real problem. True to his word, he had started to teach the pirate how to read, with mixed success, and in return, Crowley had begun to teach him about some of the more practical elements of the seafaring life— what ropes to pull, how the sails worked, quite how they went about things. And with the help of all the books he’d read, at times he was almost _good_ at it. He understood coordinates, could navigate by the stars… and when his lips stung with salt and a cool breeze blew his curls out of his face, it really was just like the books had said it would be.  
  
He had the outfit to match, too— allegedly to make him harder to spot as a prisoner, if the navy did come calling. This meant an end to Aziraphale’s well-tailored petticoat breeches, fine shirt and cravat, which Crowley informed him would all probably be torn up and used to patch and repair clothing; instead it was a loose, puffy-sleeved white shirt, made of canvas and nothing like the soft linen Aziraphale was used to, tight breeches, allegedly for ease of movement, and of course, one of those long black coats all the crew aboard the _Inferno_ wore, which draped over the ample curves of Aziraphale’s body with an eerie amount of ease, considering how ill-fitting every other garment he’d been given was. The black of it contrasted against the lightness of his hair and eyes, giving him an almost ghost-like appearance, and sometimes on a clear day when looking at his reflection in the water, Aziraphale thought he looked chillingly like a proper pirate.  
  
  
  
It couldn’t last, of course.  
  
All too soon, they had reached port— some little backwater place that Aziraphale had never heard of before. Even so, he stared at the little harbour with something like longing— to feel steady land under his feet, to eat something that wasn’t hardtack or dried meat that was about as easy to chew as he imagined a pair of leather boots might have been. He let himself imagine buying some new books— not the most realistic dream given his utter lack of funds, but one could dream. The supply aboard the _Inferno_ was somewhat limited to Dagon’s books on navigation and a selection of maps: informative, no doubt, but Aziraphale missed the magic of stories. He was desperate to introduce Crowley to some of his favorites, but of course, if all went well and Gabriel paid, he’d be leaving the _Inferno_ , and never see Crowley again. And if Gabriel didn’t pay… well.  
  
Aziraphale cleared his throat, and gently nudged Crowley as the two of them watched the port come slowly into view.  
  
“What are we going to do? When Gabriel doesn’t pay?”  
  
Crowley picked at his nails.  
  
“ _If_ he doesn’t pay,” he said, with false cheer. “You never know, he just might. And if not, I’ll… sort it.”  
  
“ _How_ will you sort it, Crowley?” Aziraphale pressed. “I— what’s going to happen? If he doesn’t?”  
  
“You’ll be fine, angel,” Crowley said, firmly. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, yeah?”  
  
Aziraphale stared down fixedly at the gentle lapping of the waves, as though that would conceal his blush. _Angel?_ How on earth had they gotten to the point where the pirate was giving him nicknames, of all things? It was foolish, and dangerous for about ten different reasons, and sent a giddy rush of warmth through his body even so.  
  
Aziraphale still wanted to get off the _Inferno_. Of course he did. He just… didn’t want to leave Crowley behind.  
  
“And what about you?” Aziraphale asked softly. “I saw how Hastur acted on that first day— I don’t want anything to happen to you either.”  
  
“I’ll be alright,” Crowley said, with a smile that utterly failed to be convincing. “I always am.”  
  
Aziraphale shot him a worried look, and they lapsed into silence as they pulled ever closer to the shore.  
  
They didn’t actually pull into port, but dropped anchor a safe while off: “If worst comes to worst, we want to be sailing off before the authorities can so much as set foot on board a boat,” Crowley had explained. Dagon and Hastur set off in a small rowboat towards the port in the dead of night instead, and Aziraphale watched them go with a sick, heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Crowley placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.  
  
“I am really sorry about this,” he said apologetically, holding up a worryingly familiar length of rope. “But if Gabriel does come to get you, you need to look like an actual prisoner, yeah? Captain’s orders.”  
  
Aziraphale gave a somewhat shaky smile.  
  
“Ah. Brig it is then, I suppose.”  
  
“Um. Unfortunately, yeah.” Crowley fiddled with the rope. “But I could… sit with you? If you wanted?”  
  
This time, his smile was genuine.  
  
“That would be wonderful.”  
  
And so there they were, in the brig. Crowley had tied Aziraphale’s hands in front of him this time, which at least meant he could still sort of use them, and that he could properly appreciate the knot that Crowley had tied. He’d taken Aziraphale’s coat, too, a pirate’s mark if ever there was one, and he felt oddly unclothed without it, in his too-large shirt and too-small breeches, and too-tight boots that chafed.  
  
Aziraphale wrinkled his nose.  
  
“I can live with the cramped conditions and the being tied up and all of that, you know,” he said plaintively. “It’s the _smell_ in here that really gets to me.”  
  
“Grim, isn’t it?” Crowley said cheerily. “Honestly, I’ve no clue what it is. It’s not as though we have prisoners all that often, you know.”  
  
“No?” asked Aziraphale. “I mean, you all seem wonderfully… organised when it comes to things like this.”  
  
Crowley shrugged.  
  
“You’re the first person I’ve ever managed to kidnap, personally,” he said, with something like pride. “I am a fairly useless pirate, if you hadn’t quite noticed.”  
  
This managed to startle a laugh out of Aziraphale, despite everything.  
  
“Can’t say I’m much better on the usefulness front,” he said wryly. “At least you know what you are, even if you’re not very good at being it. I’m… oh, I don’t know. A failed scholar, a failed brother, a failed son. A failed everything, really.”  
  
“You’ve been a first class hostage, I’ll have you know,” Crowley said, and a strange, warm glow began to build up in Aziraphale’s chest, until he made the mistake of breathing in through his nose, at which point it dissipated rather abruptly.  
  
Aziraphale sighed, idly picking at the rope for a moment.  
  
“You know, on the off-chance that Gabriel does pay… this’ll be goodbye, for us.”  
  
“Yeah. Um. Well, in that case… thanks for the reading lessons,” Crowley said awkwardly, and even in the dim light of the brig Aziraphale could see that his face was almost the same shade as his hair.  
  
“Thank you for the sailing lessons,” Aziraphale replied. “In some very strange way, being kidnapped by you was probably the best thing that could have happened to me.”  
  
They faded into a companionable silence, after that. And if Crowley’s head slumped onto Aziraphale’s shoulder as the pirate fell asleep, and if Aziraphale desperately wished that his hands were untied so that he could run his fingers through Crowley’s hair, before he, too, succumbed to the by now oddly comforting rocking motion of the waves, then, well, there was no-one else in the brig to remark on it.  
  
  
  
The door clattered open with what was really an unnecessary amount of force, and Aziraphale stuttered back into consciousness as he and Crowley awkwardly manoeuvred themselves away from each other. Hastur stalked into the brig, and his black eyes— shark’s eyes, really— gleamed wetly as he advanced on Crowley.  
  
“I’m going to kill you,” he said, sounding almost cheerful at the prospect, “I’m going to skin you, and wear you as a bloody _coat_.”  
  
Crowley gulped.  
  
“So I take it he didn’t, ah, pay?”  
  
“No,” Hastur gritted out, “he bloody well didn’t.”  
  
A tense silence descended, Aziraphale doing his best to scrabble to his feet despite the tied hands. Hastur glared at him.  
  
“The one time,” he said to Crowley, “that I think you might not have cocked something up, you go and kidnap the one and only rich bugger in the world that nobody bloody wants back!”  
  
So there it was. Gabriel had decided that quietly getting him out of the way was his best chance of saving face. He really shouldn’t be surprised— he was the one who had predicted this from the start, after all— but it still stung. And now…  
  
Hold on. _Save face._ He might get them out of this yet.  
  
He cleared his throat.  
  
“Um. I think I might have an idea.”  
  
Those shark eyes glared daggers at him.  
  
“This had better be good,” Hastur said, “or the pair of you will be having a lovely little swim in the very cold, very deep sea, yeah?”  
  
“It’s just that— well, Gabriel is doing this in order to avoid any kind of scandal so… I wondered if we mightn’t blackmail him, almost. With the reason for my expulsion. A newspaper might even pay you for the story itself, come to think of it. That way you could still get your ransom.”  
  
“And that’ll work, will it?” Hastur said, eyeing him up suspiciously.  
  
“Absolutely,” Aziraphale said confidently. “I know Gabriel. His reputation’s the thing that matters most to him. He’ll pay.”  
  
“And if he does,” Crowley blurted out, “you— you let Aziraphale go, all right? Untouched. Pirate’s honour.”  
  
Aziraphale looked at Crowley, touched, that same strange feeling reigniting in his chest.  
  
Hastur shot him a frankly disgusted look.  
  
“Fine. He can go, if and when Gabriel’s paid. But I’ll remember, Crawly, that this prisoner managed to be a damn sight better at this whole piracy business than you’ve ever been.” He sighed, as if waiting for some retort. When it became evident that none would be forthcoming, he gritted out a frustrated “I’ll get Dagon on it,” and flounced out. Crowley rolled his eyes, moving over to free Aziraphale’s wrists.  
  
“He always has to be so dramatic, doesn’t he?” Crowley said, with a lopsided grin that didn’t quite meet his eyes.  
  
“That was— very kind of you, Crowley,” Aziraphale got out with some difficulty, “making sure that I’d be able to leave.”  
  
“Save the thanks until you’ve actually gotten off this bloody boat, all right?”  
  
Aziraphale bit his lip.  
  
“You should have— asked for some guarantee of your own safety. Or I should have, or—”  
  
“ _Angel_.” Crowley placed a gentle hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You’ve done more than I could have hoped for— it’s a bloody good idea. Hastur might have a point about you and piracy, you know.” He was silent for a moment, and Aziraphale really should not want to kiss him as much as he did. Kissing other men was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place.  
  
“Where will you go?” Crowley asked. “When this is all over.”  
  
“I haven’t the foggiest,” Aziraphale admitted. And then, not quite knowing what had possessed him, added, “Come with me.”  
  
A slow smile spread over Crowley’s face.  
  
“Yeah, all right.”  
  
And then against all better instincts his mouth was on Crowley’s and Crowley’s mouth was on his, drinking him in, and they were kissing. Aziraphale’s hands tangled in Crowley hair as Crowley’s lean frame pressed up against the soft curves of Aziraphale’s round body, like he was drowning, like he never, never wanted to let go.  
  
  
  
Then there was more waiting. The weather turned— a steady ambush of rain, fine and grey and freezing, assaulted the ship day and night with no sign of stopping, and the wind picked up, in a way that made Aziraphale feel as though he might not be quite as over his seasickness as he had presumed. But they were all right. They were more than all right, really.  
  
The ship was quiet— most of the crew had taken a row-boat into port, to restock and take some much-needed shore leave, leaving just Aziraphale, Crowley, and Hastur to man the ship, and wait for Gabriel to put in an appearance. They weren’t expecting much in the way of resistance from a man they’d already soundly thrashed in combat once.  
  
The inclement weather meant that they spent most of their time squeezed into Crowley’s minuscule cabin, sometimes continuing with Crowley’s reading lessons, sometimes both engaging in lessons on… other things entirely.  
  
Waiting with baited breath for Gabriel’s response.  
  
Until a sopping wet Hastur shoved open the door, with typical amounts of violence.  
  
“He’s here,” he said, simply. He turned on his heel and turned back the way that he had come, and Crowley and Aziraphale scrambled to follow him, the rain dousing them as they made their way outside.  
  
And there on the deck stood Gabriel, the unnerving purple of those eyes the one speck of colour in the slate-grey rain of the world. He had someone with him, a sailor Aziraphale dimly recognized off the _Celestial_ , with gold coating his teeth and menace in his eyes. Aziraphale took a shaky breath.  
  
“How nice of you to finally… grace us with your presence,” Aziraphale said, attempting to remain some veneer of civility.  
  
Gabriel scoffed.  
  
“You think you can blackmail me? _Me_?”  
  
“I was kidnapped by a gang of bloodthirsty pirates,” Aziraphale snapped, “and when you didn’t come for me, I had to improvise.”  
  
Gabriel spared Crowley and Hastur in their black coats a desultory glance.  
  
“Really, you ought to just have killed him,” he drawled. “Saved us all the bother.”  
  
Crowley bristled. Hastur grinned.  
  
“But if we’d just done that, we wouldn’t get any _money_.”  
  
“And you still won’t,” Gabriel said with a thin-lipped smile.  
  
“Then I wish you all the best in leaving this ship alive,” said Hastur.  
  
“Sandalaphon?” Gabriel said almost casually, and Aziraphale was momentarily so offended by such a name choice for such a deeply unpleasant-looking man that he almost missed him pull out a small, wicked-looking dagger, and Gabriel an honest-to-goodness sword.  
  
Hastur grabbed his own cutlasses, the mere shine of which looked sharp enough to wound the air.  
  
Crowley grabbed Aziraphale.  
  
The pirate rushed the merchants, with an ugly scrape of steel on steel, and Crowley pulled Aziraphale away and down to crouch behind the limited shelter of a barrel to the port of the ship. He dug frantically through some hidden inner pocket of his coat, pulling out a small, curved cutlass of his own, which he pressed into Aziraphale’s rain-wet hands.  
  
“They’re trying to silence you,” he hissed, “you don’t bloody let them, all right?”  
  
Gabriel stuck his head over the barrel, and leered at the pair of them.  
  
“How _touching_ ,” he said. “Have you made a pirate friend, Aziraphale? Or wait— don’t tell me he’s more than a friend?”  
  
Crowley scrambled to his feet— apparently utterly without a weapon of his own, Aziraphale noticed with dread, and made to charge at Gabriel. The merchant didn’t even need his sword: one solid, forceful shove and the pirate stumbled back— tripped— and fell.  
  
Clean off the boat, and into the raging sea below️.  
  
Aziraphale screamed.  
  
He turned to face Gabriel, trembling, with Crowley’s sword clutched tight in his hands.  
  
Gabriel raised his hands, and took a few smart steps back from the side of the ship. He nodded his head towards the sea.  
  
“Go on. Look for him.”  
  
Aziraphale shot him a baffled glare.  
  
“What, so you can throw me in too?”  
  
A slow, ugly smile spread over Gabriel’s face.  
  
“I won’t touch you,” he said, “on my honour. But after everything you’ve put me through, I think I’ll enjoy the look on your face as you watch him drown.”  
  
Aziraphale looked down at the cutlass, then back up at Gabriel. He’d never… he’d no idea if he could hurt Gabriel. But the bastard was certainly pushing him. (And he’d already quite literally pushed Crowley, cried a small voice in the back of his head. How long did it take for a person to drown? Aziraphale did his best to push the voice down. He wasn’t sure if he’d cope, otherwise.)  
  
Gabriel sighed.  
  
“Look, we can argue all you want, but that’ll take time I’m afraid your little pirate friend just doesn’t have.”  
  
Aziraphale shot him one final, icy glare, then rushed over to the side of the ship, heart thudding at the thought of what he might see.  
  
The waves, slate-grey and empty as they thudded hungrily against the ship. Aziraphale cast his gaze round desperately, heartbeat eerily loud in his ears, searching for a telltale flash of red hair. Then, suddenly, he simply looked down— and there, clinging limpet-like to one of the ship’s ropes, was Crowley.  
  
He was soaked to the bone, hair dark with water and plastered to his pale face, spectacles lost to the ocean and those startling yellow eyes looking oddly large and vulnerable, but he was _alive._ Aziraphale was about to call out to him, when Crowley shook his head vehemently and pressed a finger to his lips, jerking his head in Gabriel’s direction. Aziraphale’s eyes widened in understanding, and he did his level best to give what he hoped was an appropriately distraught wail before turning back to Gabriel.  
  
“You— you scoundrel,” Aziraphale managed, with only a touch of melodrama, “I’ll get you!”  
  
He brandished the cutlass Crowley had given him, deathly unsure of what to do with it, but at least now with a clear purpose: to get Gabriel facing starboard. Away from Crowley.  
  
Gabriel just laughed, and drew his own sword.  
  
“Disappointing as ever, brother dearest,” he said, brandishing the rapier. “Are you going to fight me with _that_?”  
  
Aziraphale looked over Gabriel’s shoulder and gave a manic grin.  
  
“You know, I don’t know if I’ll need to,” he said cheerily, “given what Hastur’s just done to your enforcer.”  
  
Gabriel whirled around— to see Hastur and Sandalaphon still fighting, on what looked to be fairly even footing— but Aziraphale seized his chance, grappling for hold on Gabriel’s coat, pulling and kicking and clawing, using his sword hand to keep Gabriel’s rapier as far away from him as he could manage. It was ungainly and largely ineffective, but it didn’t need to be any good, Aziraphale told himself, only time-consuming.  
  
A low whistle sounded from behind them, and Gabriel turned smartly on his heel, nostrils flaring. Aziraphale followed, relinquishing his hold and with a beaming smile on his face.  
  
And there stood Crowley in all his dripping-wet glory, brandishing a very familiar silver pistol.  
  
“You’re going to get off this boat and leave Aziraphale alone,” Crowley said, “or I shoot, yeah?”  
  
Gabriel smiled, but it seemed just a little more forced than before.  
  
“You won’t kill me,” he said, with apparent confidence. “Not in front of my own brother, if you still want him to feel anything for you.”  
  
Aziraphale felt the strangest sense of deja vu.  
  
“He won’t _have_ to kill you,” he said slowly. “He could… shoot you in the leg. Which would be terribly inconvenient for everyone involved.”  
  
“What he said,” Crowley nodded, grinning. “And I think Hastur’s just about sorted your little friend, mind.” And indeed: the pirate was now binding coarse rope around a semi-conscious Sandalaphon’s wrists.  
  
Crowley waved. Aziraphale could practically feel Hastur’s answering glare, even from a distance.  
  
But— they’d won, he supposed.  
  
Crowley led Gabriel at gunpoint over to where Hastur and Sandalaphon were, and the first mate made quick work of binding Gabriel’s wrists, before forcing the two of them back into the dingy they had used to board the _Inferno_.  
  
Hastur jumped into the boat after them.  
  
“I’ll take these bastards back to shore, make sure they pay what they owe. You man the ship while I’m gone. Then…” he shrugged at Aziraphale. “You’re free to go.”  
  
  
  
Aziraphale’s hand found Crowley’s as they watched Hastur row away, then abruptly dropped it when he realised quite how cold it was.  
  
“You’re _freezing_ , we must get you out of this rain, and into some dry clothes— come on…”  
  
Crowley nodded mutely, and they went below decks, Crowley peeling off his sodden black coat and replacing it with a dry white shirt that was just frilly and translucent enough for Aziraphale’s liking, pulling his hair into a bun. Aziraphale watched him change in appreciative silence.  
  
“I— when you fell— I don’t think I’d ever been more scared in my life.”  
  
Crowley’s gaze softened, and he moved to sit next to Aziraphale.  
  
“Oh, angel…”  
  
“I almost lost you,” Aziraphale said fiercely. “Just— promise me you’ll never do anything like that again, all right?”  
  
“I promise never to get pushed off another boat by your utter bastard of a brother,” Crowley said with mock solemnity, and Aziraphale gave him a gentle shove in retaliation.  
  
“Thank you, for not killing him,” Aziraphale said, after a while, “I know he probably deserved it, after everything— but I don’t know if I could have borne watching it.” He paused for a moment. “And I don’t know if you deserve to have his blood on your hands, either,” he added softly.  
  
Crowley gave a lopsided smile.  
  
“Couldn’t have killed him if I’d wanted to, really,” he said. “The gunpowder would have been soaking wet.”  
  
Aziraphale looked at him in shock for a moment, and then couldn’t help himself: he began to laugh, desperately, manically, a celebration of their survival and horror at how close they’d come. If Gabriel had only thought of that… but Crowley began laughing too, and it took a good while for the pair of them to subside into silence.  
  
“Where do we go now?” Crowley asked.  
  
“I’m not entirely sure,” Aziraphale admitted. “We could always simply make off with the _Inferno_ before Gabriel gets back.”  
  
Crowley snorted.  
  
“I knew you had an affinity for piracy, really,” he said, then leaned over and gently pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s.  
  
Aziraphale ran a hand through Crowley’s hair as he kissed him back.  
  
“Then again,” he murmured, “Friday’s meant to be a terribly unlucky day for starting a voyage, isn’t it? So perhaps we’d better not.”  
  
Crowley grinned.  
  
“Then it's a good thing we’re not too bothered about superstitions, isn’t it?” he replied, looking at Aziraphale with those gleaming amber eyes. He must have seen some lingering tension in Aziraphale’s face, because he quickly added— “In all seriousness, you won’t lose me, yeah? I promise.”  
  
Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s hands and held them tight.  
  
“Whatever we do next,” Aziraphale said, “we’ll do it together.”  
  
“Together,” Crowley echoed, and as outside the rain continued to pour into the endless sea, they sat huddled tight together, the failed pirate and the failed merchant, and began to dream up a future for themselves.

**Author's Note:**

> This was so much fun to write! Thanks so much to Nny for the lovely prompt, Amanda for being a fantastic beta, and the GOHE mods for having infinite patience and incredible organising skills.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! xx


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